Lady and the Hound
by o-Roonil Wazlib-o
Summary: "He will try to break you, little bird. Don't let the bastard get his way." And, just for a moment, the Hound was her dog, not Joffery's. But then the room opened and she took her place at the center, while the Hound took his by the king, hand on hilt, rabid and stony-faced.
1. Chapter 1

Rob Stark was dead, and from his place on the throne, the boy King gloated as though he'd slain the young wolfing himself. Sansa had only a brief few hours of grievance before the King summoned her to the throne room.

The knock on her chamber door revealed the Hound, come to escort her to the nightmare awaiting. _The gallant knight of death, leading me to King Joffery's hands_ , Sansa thought bitterly in her suffering. The Hound looked like death, all mangled and scorched, calloused and angry. But the Hound wasn't a knight, and he kept reminding the little bird of that. She also knew that when journeying into the depths of seven hells, she'd much rather his escort then that of Ser Meryn Trant's.

Her eyes were still weeping and puffy, red and swollen with her loss as they walked the familiar steps to the hall. The Hound didn't make things any easier. He kept silent a stride behind her, only his armor clanking with each step.

They weren't far from the Great room when Sansa broke. She rested herself against the wall, stifling sobs, and trying to calm hiccups between sharp breathes.

"Its not fair. It's not fair. Why can't he just leave me be? I've done nothing, nothing to deserve this. Ive been only but a good ward to them. Why." She looked up at him, tears cascading freely, wiping them away with the sleeves of her dress.

The Hound's only comfort to give was a contorted frown and a single, white handkerchief.

"Here, you'll ruin your gown." He said gruffly.

She took it from him and dabbed her eyes, thinking his words rude, but thanking him none the less.

At the doors, a few more words fell upon her ears in his raspy, deep voice.

"He will try to break you, little bird. Don't let the bastard get his way." And, just for a moment, the Hound was her dog, not Joffery's. But then the room opened and she took her place at the center, while the Hound took his by the king, hand on hilt, rabid and stony-faced.

She faced the King, lips pouting, body trembling, but strong, shoulders back, head high.

"Sweet Sansa, my lady. Why, you've been crying. It displeases me to see you so saddened, but I wonder - what could ail you so?"

Sansa took only a moment before the words formed at her tongue, and she delivered them, sullen and flat.

"You're Grace, I'm sorry I displease you. I find I cannot stop my weeping - tears of joy, my Lord, for my traitor brother is dead, and now he won't raid the city and take me away from the truest place I call my home. I couldn't be happier, and now all the people of Kings Landing can live safe and happy lives under the protection of your grace, without the threa -"

"Enough, you bore me."

Sansa swallowed the lump at her throat.

"But, yes, your traitor brother is dead. I killed him." Joffery made a dreadful show of placing the nameless crossbow upon his lap and drawing the string back, clicking the deadly weapon into place.

"And I could kill you too, sweet Sansa, your traitor father and brother were nothing but trouble to the sworn crown, and you are blood of their blood - why would I trust you, to keep you here under my protection as you so valiantly put it. I find I have no need for you." He aimed between her eyes.

She had no fancy words to play, all she could do was beg.

"Please, your Grace. I'm not like them, I've not a traitorous bone in my body -"

"But you have traitors blood, and that is enough to fill me with perdition." He gently - almost sweetly, placed the bow on the ground beside the throne, and instead griped the hilt of his sword. He drew it and pointed at her. The boy King stood, and descended the steps to close her in. He pressed the blade against her cheek, the steel catching a wayward tear.

"You understand my position," He sighed. "It is my responsibility as King to see to it that no one rises against us again. And you, my Lady, are a stain. Mayhap not soon, but one day, you could fall victim to the war cries of your dead brother's banner-men, and plot revenge against me."

"No, your Grace, I am a good and loyal servant to the crown and I wouldn't dare betray you, ever."

"Perhaps Heart Eater will enjoy the blood of your throat. Look, Its soaking up your tears right now. Can you imagine the joy red would befall it?"

"Your Grace, please, I am loyal to only you. Forever. I won't rise against you, I promise."

"Swear it, pledge fidelity to me, now and forevermore. Do it, and I shall spare your life."

Sansa swallowed hard.

"I vow, with all my heart, that I shall forever cast my traitor family aside. I pledge fidelity to your Lord Grace, Joffery Baratheon, the one true King in the seven. I will live the rest of my days to serve only you and your great realm, with nothing but loyalty in my heart and my love for you."

Joffery brought the blade to her throat and sneered, cutting her ever so slightly, before dropping it to his side.

"Excellent." He crooned, turned on point and made way for the throne. Blood ran down her skin and seeped into the neckline of her bodice. By the time he'd turned and sat, the King held a leer on his lips and a glint in his eye so foul it blackened her own soul. The face of a man brewing an evil thought.

"Meryn." The knight approached the King.

"Your Grace."

The King spoke softly, and Sansa was unable to hear a word, but soon Meryn sniggered and faced her with a vile simper.

"Yes, your Grace." The knight left, and in his dying footsteps, Joffery reared his ugly head once again.

"Sansa, my _Lady_ , come closer." She did as she was bid.

"It pleases me that you've become a submissive little wolf. Much like my Hound here." He gestured toward the man, and when Sansa looked upon him, he appeared as hard as he did forbidding, with no sympathies to give her. _A dog in the presence of it's master is unlike a dog alone_ , she thought, palming the handkerchief in her sleeve.

"So now I have two dogs at court." Joffery said smugly. "Perhaps I'll have pups one day."


	2. Chapter 2

"So now I have two dogs at court." Joffery said smugly. "Perhaps I'll have pups one day."

Pure untainted, unadulterated dread washed over her in its most simple form. It drained all the colour from her skin, leaving a pale white that mirrored the likes of Jon Snow's direwolf, Ghost. He couldn't mean to give me to the Hound. But, he could. Sansa knew - and while in the dead of the night, the girl, fraught with sexual frustrations unbeknownst to her, would allow herself the unspeakable wild visions of a gentler Hound with a kinder face taking her into the marriage bed - the reality of such a thing come true made her tense with worry.  
"And my new dog, Lady -" he paused for his words to take affect. It took a moment for Sansa to realize the King was referring to her as Lady, and not a lady. And when she understood, though her tears had stopped flowing, the sting in hear heart was raw. "- must be broken in, like all good dogs are taught."  
Like Sandor Clegane's pet name, Lady was also titled after a noble, most loyal creature. How Sansa missed her pup's soft fur and gentle heart. She stood taller and refused to take this humiliation as an insult.  
"My Lord, my Lady direwolf was a beautiful, loving creature who gave me such bound loyal respect until her very end. I am filled with pride you would name me in such a way."  
"Bite your tongue, bitch, or I'll have my dog rip it from your throat. Aye, Ser Meryn - how was your trip to the kennels?" The entire court turned, as a body of one, to see Meryn Trant re-enter the hall with a dog collar dangling from his brute fingers, a chain of steel, and two dog bowls tucked under his arm.  
"Invigorating, your Grace, the hounds do seem keen for a hunt, as am I." The King looked positively elated.  
"Aye, and when my duties here are done, we shall take heed and hunt forth in the noon. I could use a decent kill myself. You there," he motioned to a servant boy. "See to it the preparations are made." The boy seem startled, nodded and left almost more shaken then Sansa found herself. She felt pity for the child, for she knew if he were to mishap even in one small matter, or the hunt didn't go as planned, Joffery would maim him.  
"Sansa, I have brought you a necklace, don't you find it pretty?"  
Meryn stalked forward. The collar was old and dirty, the leather fraying. It smelt of wet dog and excrement. He will try to break you, little bird. Don't let the bastard get his way. The Hound's words were wrought in her skull. Don't let him break me. Don't let him break me. Show your lord father and mother the courage they would be proud for. Don't let him break me.  
"Yes, your Grace, it's beautiful."  
"Meryn, please bestow Lady with her gift."  
"Gladly, your Grace."  
Before Ser Meryn could handle her, she gracefully swept her hair aside, exposing her slender nape. This maddened him, she could see it in the flair of his nostrils. "Oh, so courteous," he grated, and moved to her back. Sansa stole a glance toward the Hound, hoping she would see an air of approval about him, but he was the same as before, standing tall and taut, and rough and grim. He wasn't even looking at her. A disheartened, hallow pang settled in her chest.  
Perhaps he didn't care for her after all. Not that I should mind, Sansa settled. The man was rude, vile and a ferocious brute. She had thought, though, that there might have been some sort of involvement between them. The night the sky turned green, when Stannis's army had loomed forth upon Kings Landing gates akin to as much. After all, he'd taken the absurdity to approach her in the stark privacy of her own rooms with nothing but an aggressive vile tongue, and drunken promises to keep her safe.  
Before he left, he ripped his cloak and dropped it in a twisted, bloody heap upon the floor. She fell asleep with it huddled around her, the smell of blood, and burn and bile, of muck and mud and wine left her sated with the thought of him. It was the smell of a man she was deathly afraid of, but one whom now presented so heavily, intoxicating her dreams almost every night.  
She was afraid she might never see him again. But it was not so, for the Hound had been found the very next morn, passed out from blind drunkenness on the steps nearest to Maegor's gate. Since then, she had thought to give him back his cloak, but he'd adorned a new one and Sansa was a selfish girl, for want of their personal interlude to remain alive - the cloak made her fading memory valid, and she didn't want to blame it on her dreams. It would seem the Hound, though, had deterrent thoughts, for he acted no differently in her favor since that night, perhaps even less kind then before.  
Ser Meryn was unsparing in his binding, and fastened the latch so tight Sansa could scarcely breathe. But she recited her courteous all the same.  
"Thank you, Ser. I adore it." She spoke to Meryn directly. His lips only curled upwards into a vicious snarl as he hooked the chain to the loop.  
"Tie her to the pillar," The Kings voice rattled in her head, and she was led over to the front left side of the room, and tethered like a dog to a tree. The bowls were set at her feet and Joffery yelled for them to be filled with river water and scraps from the kitchen.  
"Dog."  
"Your Grace."  
"See to it that the bitch stays put until my say so. Her maids are not to pet her. No one is to approach. And Lady, if you are well behaved for the Hound, perhaps I'll gift you with the bones of my slain carcass upon my return."  
"Most generous of you, your Grace. I hope your hunt is glorious and plentiful, I shall wait with worry, praying for your safe return."  
Joffery approached, unhurried and leant close to her ear. His murmur sent sickly shivers down her spine that made her toes tingle.  
"You are my bitch, sweet Lady, and If my mother, uncle or grandfather try to come to your aid in any way." His teeth grazed her lobe, forcing a shudder about her body. "Well, you would be... quite wise, to turn them away." He gently kissed her jaw line. "I do hope you...understand." He threatened, pulling back. His eyes were dead. How could anyone have such dead eyes?  
"I understand." She said curtly.  
"Good." He breathed. "Now," He cupped her cheek. His hand cold, and clammy, and boney. "Get some rest, Lady, for tomorrow I have an announcement to make, and it will be a very important day for you."


	3. Chapter 3

After the King left, many onlookers seemed to want to approach the Lady Sansa, perhaps to bid her their pity or mention words of comfort, but the Hound growled low and dark whenever one came close. Sansa couldn't decide if she considered his actions chivalrous, protecting her from even more belittlement, or if he was simply following his master's command with an expert articulation. Regardless, she was grateful, for as dutiful as her courtiers became her, she naught felt like sprouting any more of them today. Less then half the hour had passed before news of Sansa Starks humiliation had reached the furtherest walls of the Red Keep, and a many a new faces entered the throne room to look upon her shame.  
Sansa was learning her defiance, and was still a lady, even if the King demoted her with his words and actions. So she stood tall and still, mirroring the calm fierceness that the Hound exhibited, always on a constant ferocious display.  
It lasted only a second, but the small, coy upturn of her lips brought with it the knowledge that she was reflecting the Hound's stoney cold, persistently erected shield that created a most tough exterior. And she was thankful she had the courage to borrow it. It was safe, she liked the way it made her feel.  
The girl would lick her wounds later, but for now, she refused to let the hundreds of eyes, disgracefully pointed in her direction, chasten her. In the hour that would pass, naught once did she drop her gaze, and she knew Sandor Clegane would applaud her for such a feat.  
Sansa was frighteningly close to loosing her will when the Hound began to snap at heals.  
"Alright, alright, you've had your show, now get out."  
"Gods be dammed, have you no shame?"  
"Give the girl her privacy."  
He threatened every single man, woman and child in the room until they began to flee.  
"You tell the King I sent you running, and I'll murder you in your sleep, boy." His guttural voice echoed about the room as the last person tripped out the doors. And with just the Hound left, Sansa finally allowed herself to relax a moment.  
"Thank you Ser,"  
"I spit on your courteous, damn girl," He growled. "You know that."  
"I'm not giving you my courteous, I'm merely being kind, and I, truly, I mean them. Thank you for making them all leave."  
"Your a strong little bird, I'll give you that." She bore no witness to his face upon these words, but it sounded almost like a smile had fallen across it. But when he turned and strode toward her, she saw no evidence, save, perhaps the smallest of glint in his eyes - and yet that could have been the light.  
His approach didn't strike her as an angry man's stride would, but by the time he was close, his demeanor had changed to that of one.  
This small flash of rage was short lived, however, when he made a grunted, gurgling sound that she couldn't quite place. Not a rasp, nor a gripe. More like a - a whimper. She knew he was capable of such an emotion - she'd witnessed it before, rather - felt it on her hand that night.  
The clear-cut difference. The Hound didn't smell of dorinsh sour. He wasn't drunk. Not even a little. He wasn't throwing profanities. He wasn't his usual crass self by any means. He wasn't even hidden by the cover of night. She recognized the significance of this moment and couldn't bare the thought of saying anything that might ruin it.  
His face - that sad broken and burnt face of his - looked right through to her core. It made her groin ache, but she dared not move a muscle.  
He looked at her so intently that he forgot to hold his shield, and his toughness melted like wax under flame.  
The Hound was naught but gone. The much hidden Sandor Clegane stood firm in his place.  
With a tentative movement, Sandor cupped her cheek. She didn't flinch, instead wished to lean in, but rather wary the kind of ripple effect it may cause the sleeping beast to take. She wanted to be here for just a little while longer.  
Tentative. Sansa .  
Sandor Clegane was everything the Hound was not.  
His hand was warm. Calloused, like his face. Rigid and cracked with a million imperfections. A killers hands. But warm. Very warm hands.  
The twinge between her legs had gotten a lot worse, and she couldn't keep the stillness for any longer. Perhaps much to suddenly, Sansa settled her hand atop of his. The small gesture of acceptance shattered the illusion, and instantly Sandor was whisked away, packed tightly in a dark, dank box and buried deeply beneath the Hound's much hardened soul.  
The scowl was back, but he was surprisingly soft spoken.  
"He had no right to do that to you, little bird."  
"Hu," she took a second to re-collect herself, "oh." she paused. "But he had every right. He's the King."  
"Aye, He is the King, and by laws of men, he had that right. But by the laws of nature -  
"Being cruel is his nature...and anyway, it doesn't matter." She found herself growing hard-hearted against him. "Please, I don't want to talk about it."  
The Hound sneered before nodding curtly.  
"Yes, as the little bird wishes." He turned back to face the empty hall, as though it were full with people. His stance wide, hand on hilt, ready to draw as though he stood before the King. Sansa didn't exactly understand what had happened, nor the insult he propounded, but his actions stung all the same.  
"That was unkindly, Ser. It doesn't become you."  
He barked and faced her. "Oh, it doesn't become, It doesn't become me - have you. Have you met me, girl." He growled. "You might live higher then the rest of us, but do pull your silly little head in from the clouds before you loose it, like your father. You believe I am noble - I neither deserve, nor want the thought, little bird. I am a monster who kills, and you choose to ignore the vile things I do, because you still - still, even after all of this, -" His arm flayed in the direction of her chains. "- believe in your knights and fair maidens. And you - well, you act the part they make you play so sweetly, don't you? Just like the little caged bird I name you for, chirping your cortices, singing of all your pretty songs. Serving your masters. Making them happy for being good, and well, and proper. For doing as you bid."  
His words were harsh, but It wasn't until later would she realize the man was drawing parallels between them.  
"The King could shaft his sword into your belly, watch virgin blood spill across your legs, and you'd still see the world as beautiful. Its not." He bared his stained crocked teeth into a snarl.  
"And If I don't cut your wings, Sansa, you'll never grow into a wolf."


	4. Chapter 4

"The King could shaft his sword into your belly, watch virgin blood spill across your legs, and you'd still see the world as beautiful. Its not." He bared his stained, crocked teeth into a snarl.  
"And If I don't cut your wings, Sansa, you'll never grow into a wolf."

His words rattled with venom. If he'd been a Snake and not a Hound, she would surly be dead. Sansa, wrought with the madness his tongue imposed, felt only the insidious onslaught of disrespectful words, and not the meaning behind them.  
"Shut up, shut up. You're so hurtful." The tears fresh in her eyes again.  
"Aye, good to see you finally got it, girl. I'm a hurtful dog, doing hurtful things to hurtful little girls. You'll do well to remember that."  
Silence fast grew strong between them, brutally so, until she spoke, scarcely a whisper.  
"What do you mean...I'm not hurtful."  
The Hound looked over his shoulder at the ground, so she could see him side face. The laugh that escaped his lips were naught much a chortle. It sounded, rather, like a tangible defeat, riding the waves of his breath out into this world.  
"No, little bird, your not hurtful, not intentionally." She opened her mouth to rebuttal but found naught the words, and so the silence overtook them again. Only minuets passed before the Hound gargled and turned to her in the slowly dying light of afternoon.  
"I can't stand it anymore."  
His thick hands reached to her neck, and for a moment Sansa thought he meant to strangle her, but with large fumbling fingers he pulled the collar taut, restricting her breath even more, before unlatching the prong and slackening it by two clicks. The relief and extra rush of air was more exhilarating then she thought it might have been.  
"I'd loosen it more so, little bird, but if someone were to see..." he threaded the end through the frame and tucked it in place. His big hands lingered, nailing at the collar.  
"I understand." She nodded, gently bringing her hand up to rest under his elbow, and cupping the frame of his arm. It was meatier then she presumed, more hard with muscle.  
He didn't shy away, and they stood for a few seconds longer, imprinting the stolen moment in memories that would no sooner become years and years old.  
"In the morn, I'll have to.."  
"I know."  
He nodded sadly, dropped his hands and stood apart from her again.

The two spoke no more, and the Hound maintained his stony aptitude, especially upon Tyrion's abrupt appearance. A meek Shae followed behind, but ran to Sansa quickly, the worry apparent in her eyes.  
"Oh, sweet-harrt." She cradled Sansa's head to her chest.  
"Shae" It was the first proper smile the girl had expressed all day and she leaned in to her confidante.  
"You poore gurl." Shae began rubbing her hands down Sansa's arms before wrapping her in a hug. Sansa could feel the Hounds eyes on them. Jest, it would seem Shae felt them too, for she turned to face the hulking figure, unafraid.  
"Oh, sod off. You carnt hurt me." The anger quite unforgiving upon her foreign tongue.  
"The King said -"  
"I don't care what that orefull King said. If you hurt my girl, I stab you." She hissed.  
"Shae!" Sansa's voice high pitched with amusement.  
"Wat?"  
"That was very un-lady like."  
"I'm no lady - enyway, I'm not schard of him. I keep you safe."  
Tyrion cleared his throat, and Shae looked sharply too him.  
"Your handmaiden cares for you very deeply, Lady Sansa."  
Sansa rather erratically built the walls up high around her before facing her betrothed. She pulled her shoulders back and curtsied.  
"Yes, my Lord. Shae is very special to me."  
Tyrion gave a glazed smile, and an awkward silence evolved between them.  
"Um. Is, Is there anything I can do for you?" She asked.  
"What? What? No, God's, no, child." He seemed slightly confused upon snapping out of his reverie. Sansa shared a look with her handmaiden whom shrugged with a coy smile.  
"I've come to offer my sympathies and return you safely to your chambers. Joffery has had his fun."  
"I'd...I'd rather not, my Lord." She chose her next words carefully. "His Grace, the King, is a true and just person. If I am here, it is because he judged it of me, and I am in deep deserving of his punishment." She recited, remembering the Kings threatening breath at her ear, and thin lips on her skin.  
"This isn't punishment, child. You're not being punished, you're being humiliated. As the only Stark left and heir to Winterfell, he wants to break you. Take your pride and crush it. Slowly. And painfully. He's sending a brutal message to the North. Even if he does hide behind his mothers skits."  
Sansa breathed deep.  
"My Lord, King Joffery requested I stay here until it pleases him. I am but his loyal servant, and I wish it not to disobey." She looked past the little Lord, unable to summon the courage to look directly at him, the shame becoming too much. Just leave, she wished. Please, just leave and let me be.  
Tyrion sighed. "I shall fetch a cot for you then. And I shall be talking to my nephew upon his return. At least you might be comfortable for the night. And I shall stay with you, if you wish it."  
"Thats...very kind of you, my Lord, but I fear that it might be...indecent, for we are not yet husband and wife."  
"Nonsense, I can still keep you company." He said with enthusiasm, but dutifully all the same. He wanted not to marry her as much as she to him. His actions were simple cortices, the kind Sansa chirped away all day herself.  
She swallowed hard at the thought of having to keep up her walls.  
"My Lord, Ser Sandor is quite the conversationist."  
Tyrion turned to examine the brute. The Hound didn't nod in courtesy. In fact he bore no acknowledgment of Tyrion at all, choosing to keep his face forward. Emotion blank. Stale. Cold.  
"I can just imagine." He turned back with a grin, only to find Sansa's cheeks flush red and the tears welling, threatening to spill down her face.  
"Ah, I can see when I'm not wanted. Don't worry, I'm used to it." But he sounded quite hurt indeed.  
"It's not that, my Lord. I just. Look at me." Her tears fell for the umpteenth time that day. "I thought my father's death day was the worst I could have ever lived, I know that today is the beginning of many more worse days. Please. I'd rather be alone."  
Tyrion's eyes pleaded with her, but he had lost his words.  
"I'm sorry, my lady, I shall be going then." He spent his formalities.  
"Well, I'm not gohing enywhere. Fuck him." Sansa turned to face her friend.  
"Shae," her voice broke. "If someone found out that you were here - brining me comfort, and - and told the King. It would surly cost you your head. I, I couldn't bare it, Shae, not you too. I'm already all alone."  
"Oh, Sweet, gurl." Shae wiped the tears from Sansa's cheeks, and nodded. "Okay, okay, don't cry now. It'll be all right." She kissed her lady's forehead, let go of Sansa, and strode to the Hound, pointing a finger at him.  
"You. Keep my lady safe. Or I burn the other side of your face off." She threatened. Tyrion made a peep, as though he were about to interrupt, but then thought better of it. Sansa didn't blame him - the two were equally scary within their fierceness.  
The Hound did nothing but stare at her, eyes bulging, appearing only just slightly dumbfounded - naught many people could evoke such a reaction in him as that. Shae nodded, turned and curtsied at Tyrion, before gliding from the room.


	5. Chapter 5

Glad to be alone again, Sansa finally gave way to her exhaustion and sat leaning against the pillar, eyes closed. And when the night grew cold and dark, The Hound offered her his cloak, and she smelt him again. His scent, this time, less of death, and more of...dog, she mused. It was a subtle, dank smell of musk and warmth with hot earthy undertones of dirt and sweat. The smell of him reminded her of a gentler time, when she would sit in the Godswood and prey for only mother nature's mercy from the oncoming winter, whilst burying her face in Lady's tidy, thick coat.

It wasn't long later when one of the Queen's guards lit up the area with a warm orange glow - a harsh juxtaposition compared to upcoming events.

"The Queen has sent me to aid your relief, Hound, you are able to break for your fast if you wish it. Go now, piss on a tree and find a whore to rub your belly, you mangy mutt." The man feigned authority, but the Hound over stood him by a foot, at least. He only sniggered, and let the guard continue.

"Gosh now, haven't had a cup of wine in - what, six hours? That's a plight. You must be thirsty." His eyes drifted and he leered at Sansa. "I'm a bit thirsty myself, actually."

The Hound's hand shot out and gripped the man's neck, lifting him slightly, his feet dangling like puppets at the ground.  
The guard dropped his fire torch with a clank on marble, illuminating the scene from below, casting shadows across the Hounds eyes. Two stubby hands gripped around Sandor's, trying to pry them off him.

It was subtle, but Sansa noticed a wariness emitting from the Hound upon the abandoned torch. Perhaps only a little did he move away, but the tension was clearly naught from his inciting intimidation, but from the terror of dancing flames that a small child once endured the pain from long ago.

"You dare even think about touching the lady, and I'll personally see to it that your castrated - flayed one slithering nut sack, at a time."  
The Hound released the slowly purpling man, and he crumpled to the floor like pork Jelly.

"And you can tell the Queen that while her thoughtfulness has not gone unnoticed, I feel less at ease with a pig like yourself in even just the same room as the lady, let a lone leaving her alone with you and your perversions."

The floored man gargled and winced, but before he could recover, the Hound hunkered by him with a scowl so horrible that even the most very violent souls trapped in the depths of seven hells would tremble before him.

Sansa wouldn't forgot the hostility displayed across the hulking man's face any time soon. Like a demon - the hallows of his cheeks and eyes shrouded in black, framed around dark, lang hair. His burned side glinting and red. Only the malice truly showed in the way his lips moved and the scowl behind them flickered. But it was very clear - an angry mouth was all that was needed to convey his truths.

The shear size difference between the men did not go unnoticed, and Sansa remembered back to that night, with the Hound atop her so, creating a considerably uneven surface upon the featherbed with his overpowering weight. And she realized then, that no matter what, she'd always be a little afraid of him.

The Hound spoke low, and Sansa couldn't hear it, but the threat, what ever it was, was indeed severally real, or at least, it appeared the man on his back had thought it to be. A person couldn't fake the kind of terror sewn across his features. The Hound stood, and backed away.

"Bring me a chicken and a flagon of wine," He said flatly. The Queen's guard scrambled to his feet, unable to retrieve his light quick enough.

"And don't forget the candles." The Hound spat before the man fled.

"Cunt." He growled out into the blackness of the night.

Time passed, and soon four handmaidens entered. All of them flushed and hurrying. One was holding an already lit candle chandelier, and she set it by the Hound. The kitchenmaid followed suite, bypassing Sansa and presenting The Hound with a meal of bread and butter, his requested chicken, and some hot vegetable soup. The smell filled the room and her stomach grumbled.

The other two girls set up her cot and she was relieved to be able to sit on something other then the hard marble floor. The four curtsied before her, ringing out chorus's of 'm'lady' before fleeing as quickly as they'd entered.

Thank you, Tyrion. She thought settling onto the cot. It was nothing like her goose-feather bed, being tiny, fit for a child. It was a little lumpy, but it was a bed to crown over the cold marble floor.

The large flagon the girls had set before the Hound could have easily quenched the thirst of at least five Cersei's, but the Hound only grunted as he took a swing, some of the liquid trickling down into his corse beard.

He sprawled himself out across the three rounded steps leading to the main platform, and devoured over half his dine in less then five minuets. It was...off-putting, Sansa thought, to see bits of spit flinging in all directions as he bit directly into a chicken leg, barely chewing before swallowing. The broth of soup dripped down his chin, as he cupped the bowl to his mouth, taking a large draft. She wondered how long it had gone without a wash. She couldn't imagine he worried about personal hygiene too much.

"Oh, stop looking so revolted girl, this is how a man eats." Her stomach simply grumbled in response. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, and even then it had been very little, what with the news that ailed her so.

The Hound placed the remaining bread and chicken into the bowl of broth and stalked over to Sansa with it in one hand and the chandelier in the other. He set the candles down, and shoved the bowl under her nose.

"Here girl." She looked at the meal expecting very little to be left. And yet, half the bread remained, and a full chicken breast sat untouched - he'd even removed it from the carcass. Most of the broth was gone, but it was more then she could have hoped for.

"Thank you."

He grunted and extended the flagon.

"Go on, take a sip, take two. I can't give you water, but..." He trailed, loosing his words as he watched the girl rip it from him with her small hands and with only a seconds thought, gulped it down, the flagon engulfing her entire face. When she re-emerged and gave it back, she wiped her mouth as delicately as she could with her sleeve. And giggled.

"Shite, girl." He growled. "That'll go straight to your head on an empty stomach."

"Do you, hick, regret sharing it with me?"

"Not a bit, little bird." He chuckled, and sat back on the steps, picking his teeth with a bone and taking deep swigs of the wine. Sansa looked at the food before her, but her smile soon vanished.

"Oh no. What about utensils." She looked back to the Hound, hardly about to tell where he was apart from a darker, gargantuan lump of a shadow.

"Do I look like I got any fucken' utensils, girl?"

"Oh..." She saddened. "How am I supposed to eat without a knife and falk. Fork." She corrected, furrowing.  
The Hound snorted into the flagon.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out when you get hungry enough."

It didn't take her long, and all too soon the bowl lay empty on the floor. She used the river water to wash her hands, and then cleaned her teeth as best she could, scraping a nail along them. But she had something more urgent to attend too, and she could no longer ignore it or hope for a miracle to happen any time soon.

"Ser, I...I," She'd lost her confidence when he looked her way, eyes glinting in the darkness, so instead she averted her eyes to anywhere but him. "Need the... I need to...uhh, relieve...myself." And somehow, in nothing but a dancing orange glow with only him in the room, her embarrassment was the worst it had been all day.


	6. Chapter 6

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The Hound gruffed, taking another swig.

"Aye, and what you want me to do about it?"

"I...well, I was hoping you might, uhh... escort me to a garderobe."

The Hound laughed, heartily and rich, but cruel, forcing the smell of dornish sour from his throat, and letting the fermented fragrance consume the air between them.

"And you think it wise, that I let you off your leash? Not only is it naught past dinner yet, people will still be roaming the night. If someone were to see you apart from your chain -"

"Well, take me on the chain. I don't care. It's getting unbearable."

"The consequences would be disastrous, and I'm not risking your pretty face because you needed to take a royal piss."  
Sansa sighed.

"A chamber pot, then? Is all I ask." She squeezed her legs together, the sensation fast becoming uncomfortable. The Hound grunted and stood, and forthwith loomed above her. He made quick work of emptying the dog dish filled with kitchen scraps and handed it to her. She took it with a disbelief.

"You surly don't actually expect me too..." "No, I don't - but do you see any piss-pots round here with perfectly painted pretty Tyrell roses on them? And, unless you can sew shut that cunt between your legs, you are going to need to piss - and no matter how you wish it so, I'm not risking either of our necks to make the experience more comfortable for you."

The Hound was an awful drunk. And she bluntly realized that was the way he aimed to present himself to the world. The drinking killed any soft undertones he had whilst sober, and enabled him to become obscenely primitive and even more so terrible then usual.

"What about you? Won't you need to use the garderobe."

"I'll take two steps out this room and piss out the nearest window. You going to piss out the window girl?"

"No."

"Well, then." He tucked one food behind the other, opened his arms wide and nodded, mocking her curtsy.

"Piss or don't, but good luck with the latter if that's what you choose."

His expression was difficult to place, but he turned and sulked back into the darkness with naught another looked down at the dish in her hands.

It was filthy, grubby. Foul. Small pieces of old dried meat crusted the steel, and bits of kitchen scraps and mud coated it in it's entirety. She couldn't imagine the kind of germs that were associated with the mouth of hounds - and instantly the young woman blushed, forgetting her former thoughts and seeing vividly the shameful context that crossed her mind now.

Of him. Between her legs.

It happened that way most of the time. She'd be focusing on her stitching or taking a stroll in the gardens, when something sparked it, and he would appear. His voice in her head, his grotesque face, his fierceness and courage, what his kiss might be like. Mostly his pain would be the front runner, and she would lay claim to be his hero. She would be the one to make his sadness disappear. But sometimes, intense sexual notions took ahold of her indignity and the pounding in her chest would grow so strong she thought it might give her away.

It was only ever at night when she truly meant to turn her thoughts to him. With no one around to see her venerability. Then, once a dream befell her, she could blame all her impure thoughts on the silly sleep time that couldn't be helped.

"Stop your worrying girl, trust me - worse things will get closer then that dish, mind you. That Imp of yours, well - though he might vomit his courteous at your feet, he'll be having you soon, and he'll be wanting you, thats for sure."

"Turn around." She ignored his unpleasant conversation and heard shuffling and clanking of armor, suggesting he'd turned face down on the steps. But not yet satisfied, Sansa gathered the dish in one hand and the candle chandelier in the other. With chains rattling, she re-located herself around the other side of the pillar.  
Gathering her skits she misplaced her small-clothes and stuck the dish between her legs, making sure she was touching it as little as possible. In her room, using a chamber pot was simple and non-eventful, her only thought was hurrying to get back to the warmth of the bed. In the Throne room, however, with the most hard-hearted man in the seven Kingdoms as a witness, was an exceedingly different experience.

"Cover your ears."

Perhaps it was another threat that escaped his lips, or something quite equality as vile, but the words were much to muffled to tell. Sansa was unsure if he did exactly as he was bid, but she couldn't wait for a moment longer.

The noise rang out, splattering into the dish like water leaking from roof in a thunderstorm. The nose was so loud, Sansa thought, vibrating against the walls, ringing out in the echoing room. She cursed the Gods for making bodies the way they did, and was glad when she was finally done. She abandoned the dish, not knowing what else to do, and sat back on the cot, wrapping his cloak around her, breathing in his smell, and hugging her knees to her chest.  
Despite her utter discomfort, there wasn't any tension in the air. The Hound didn't seem to give much care about the situation. All she herd was his heavy breathing and the sloshing of wine as he drank it. He didn't laugh at her. He didn't comment or belittle. He didn't say or do anything at all. He was so unfazed by her indignant moment, and now that the act was done, she felt what laid behind her was just a simple, forgettable action in a life filled with ongoing momentum.

"I don't want to marry him, you know." She said.

The night had grown old and blind, the candles long out by the time the Hound responded.

"If he so much as touches you in any way that you do not wish it, I'll -"

"Castrate him?" She interrupted sleepily, smiling, but the Hound did not laugh.

"No, little bird." He gruffed. "I'll skin that urchin alive. From his deformed miniature toes to his pretty blond Lannister locks."


	7. Chapter 7

The sun shone throughout the Red Keep, light and fluffy, and kissed her cheeks. The day ought to have been beautiful, but not for Sansa.

"Come on, girl. Time to wake. The King is on his way." Sansa had barely opened her eyes when the Hound took her by the waist and lifted her right way up. She gripped his arms until her feet were planted properly. In a calmer moment, this near personal interaction would have stilled the man before her, but as she looked at him she noticed an emotion not shown prior.

Dread. He was dreading the moment to come. He covered it well, exhibiting a false calmness with hard eyes and level breathing, but he was perturbed, agitated.

He knew something she did not.

"Whats going on?"

"The King has returned. He want's to see you. He has..." the Hound paused. "Presents." The snarl came from so deep with in his belly it rattled her core. In the urgency of all the commotion, Sansa found herself a little lost. She noticed the dog dishes, one filled with river water, and one filled with kitchen scraps. She let her confusion overtake briefly. Had he emptied it? It was far too embarrassing to ask, but she was silently thankful that it was back in place, the evidence of it completely erased.

A couple of maids entered and whisked about, taking her cot and clearing the un-knight's dinner. The Hound swiftly and silently swept his white cloak from her shoulders and re-attached it around his. She made a small noise of protest. She wanted it back, but knew it would have been a waste of breath to ask. The Hound wouldn't comply - nor should he.

He roughly unlatched the collar around her neck before re-fastening twice as tight, pinching her, not taking the time to be careful. She readjusted it, sure the skin of her throat would be distressed, for it was quite tender to the touch. No doubt exactly what Joffery wanted.

"I have no words, little bird." he said ruggedly as a low rumble of gossiping people began to appear outside the doors. "Don't give him a reason to strike you, not like the last time. I'm fast running out of handkerchiefs." He took two steps away and turned to face the room as the doors opened.

And instantly he pulled his mask down. His face strong and hard and unforgiving. The Hound was back to being the Kings dog. It saddened her, how easily he could slip back into that role - how easy he could choose to avoid showing emotion.

People filed into the room. Their voices died as their eyes took over the talking. Her shame was undeniable. Sansa took a deep breath and built the walls around her. She held her head high, and waited.

Joffery strode into the room a few moments later with a small hessian bag in his hands. Three of his Kings guard surrounded him, and four men with mean looking faces followed behind with hessian bags of their own.

Don't let him break me. Don't let him break me.

"Lady. How was your night?" He smirked.

Sansa curtsied.

"Well, your Grace."

"Just well?"

"More then well, your Grace."

The King sneered.

"Mayhap next time I'll leave you in the kennels, and you may see to it how well that becomes of you.

"If it pleases you, your Grace." The Kings eyes guided past her and settled on his watch dog.

"Hound."

"Your Grace," he nodded.

"How did my new pet behave?" Sansa looked to the man, whom briefly shared the look back, but his eyes were cold. He turned to Joffery, appearing almost bored.

"Like all good broken pups are meant to behave, your Grace," He sighed. "She learns quick. The Imp made a visit intending to free her. But, loyal to her master, loyal to her Grace, she turned him down."

Joffery's face grew more insidiously gleeful with each passing word.

"Excellent. I knew it wouldn't take long to break her."

The King approached, tucking a fly away lock behind her ear.

"You wouldn't believe what we found in the woods, sweet Lady. A sign from the Gods that you have truly been put in your place." He stepped back and reached into the sack.

"Don't look away now, you wouldn't want me to think you're displeased with your gift!"

He threw it at her feet.

The creature was small and round, with newborn whips of fur. The blood. So much blood. It's little eyes closed, mouth wide.

"No. No, please. Don't." Sansa staggered back into the pillar, looking away.

The boy King howled at her distress.

"Meryn, make her look." Strong hands grabbed roughly at her jaw and forced her to look back down at the direwolf's lonesome, tiny head. Joffery reached into the sack and produced it's small body. He tossed it at Sansa.

"I've named it Ned. Fitting, do you think it not?" Sansa did nothing but let the tears surge. The King snapped his fingers and the four men behind him came forward. Two of them each dumped a small black and burnt direwolf babe at her feet, singed and bloody - like the Hounds face freshly burnt.

"This one's Brandon, and little Rickon." The King cooed, pointing.

"Please Stop." Sansa cried. "Stop. They're just. Babies!" She tried reefing her jaw away from Meryn. She succeeded for only a second before Meryn clasped at her with his other hand, and dug in, giving her bruises.

"We found the mother, the stupid bitch, whelping these immoral creatures. She came such a long way south for her safety. Too bad she didn't realize the danger stages and lions behold." He motioned at the remaining two men. They did as they bid and stepped forward, producing two more pups, each mirroring the deaths of Rob and Caitlyn Stark, and thew them down in front of Sansa's. The blood pooled at her feet, for their tiny bodies were still warm.

Joffery snarled when he didn't get a further reaction from the northern girl. She had grown cold and dead.

"You know. There was one pup left. Little thing it was too - the runt. I named it Sansa. I gave it mercy. I let it live - but perhaps, if you displease me, I'll find it and kill it - that is, if it even lasts without its family." The King sighed.

Sansa gripped the chain. The boy wasn't too far from her, and the chain was long. She might not be strong, but she could find it within her to strangle him dead.

"I grow tired of your weeping." He snarled. "Somebody, get her out of my sight."

The Hound's hard hands were around her neck instantly, and in seconds the collar fell to the floor. He wrapped his thick arms around her waist and carted her out the room before she could even blink.

Deeper into the castle, with no one around, he lifted her body fast with ease and swept her up into his chest. She sobbed. Loudly and freely, and wrapped an arm round his neck, clutching his white kings guard cloak tight in her fist.


	8. Chapter 8

The Hound's large hand cradled her head against his breast-plate as her wails grew louder, and her chest heaved stronger, shaking her entire form.

"It's alright, little bird. It's alright." He reasoned

"It's not though, is it? Not really. It's never going to be okay. Not with him as King. Not with the Lannister's in power. And I have to marry one of them. I don't want to."

"Hush now, little bird."

"Did you see them? Their little bleeding broken bodies? Did you see? Just like my family. All of my family."

They were at her chambers, and he opened the door with a surprising amount of grace for a man with full arms.

In the middle of the room, time stood still. He hadn't set her down, but she could feel herself growing heavy in his hold. Sansa wasn't quite ready to leave the comfort he'd brought, and it seemed neither did he, because with a silent mutual agreement, they slid to the floor. Embraced as one, Sansa's head buried in his chest, her arms still tight around his shoulders, and hands still clutched at his cloak.

She realized then, that this man, this Sandor Clegane, the frightening Hound - dressed in only a tough armor of crassness and hurtfulness, a known brutal killer, fueled with thoughts of anger and rage and hatred - was the only man left in the Seven Kingdoms whom she fully trusted.

He wouldn't hurt her.

Perhaps it was a moment of weakness for Clegane, but he embraced the fragile girl in his lap, wrapping his broad arms around her. Cradling her neck with stocky fingers, and enfolding his arm right round her thin waist, bringing her close. The brute man felt her warmth, and, knowing it indecent, wrapped himself around her tighter anyway, trying to still her shuddering body.

Steadily her body became static, and she quietened to emitting soft feeble sound of distress.

"I can hear your heart beat." She sniffed and looked up at him with her big Tully blue eyes. Though blotched and red and tear stained as they were, her eyes were still the most alluring the Hound ever known. There was a rough energy behind them, and even deeper still, a strong courage riddled with the need to fight for her preservation.

"Little bird." His words incited failure.

Sansa's eyes diverted as she focused on her nimble fingers reaching up to the buckles holding his breast plate in place, and shakily began to unlatch them.

A forceful, shallow, guttural growl came from Sandor, and he placed his hand over hers, halting movement. The sound was more animalistic then she'd ever herd from him before, even the day of the tournament when he'd fought his brother. Even on the occasions where he'd threatened her life.

"Sansa."

"Sandor." Her voice broke.

With a highly rapid movement not normally associated with the giant wreck of a man, the Hound stood and backed away from the girl, leaving her in a crumbled heap upon the floor.

"Please." Her tears spilt forth. "Please, let me. Let me feel your heart."

The Hound gave her a hard look, and drew a deep breath.

"There is no heart to feel. If you don't know that by now, I've taught you nothing. Now, get your self up, woman, bathe, get pretty. He will be requesting your presence again soon enough, no doubt."

And with the slice of words he left raw in the air, the Hound turned and strode out her room.

Sansa sat in the too-hot bath. She felt properly relaxed for the first time in twenty four hours, letting the hot water loosen her muscles, and the hands of Shae sooth her aching scalp. She could scarcely think that the news of her mother and brother's death had only found her yesterday morn. It felt like a lifetime ago.

"Shae, leave me, please."

"Yes, m'lady." Shae stood and curtsied, but before she left, Sansa grabbed her wrist.

"Thank you. For everything. Really. I'm so lucky to have someone like you in my life."

"It was nothing." She smiled.

When her confidant had left, Sansa held her breath and submerged underwater.

She knew this fleeting moment of slight content would not last for long. The King would summon her soon, and she would learn of her fate. Whatever it was that his sick mind intended. Mayhap she wouldn't have to marry Tyrion after all. Mayhap Joffery would find it fitting for his two dogs of court to mate, like he'd said.

The Hound.

Would he become her betrothed? Though terrified at the prospect, excitement became her.

The man truly baffled her.

He'd called her by her name just now, and a woman. That was a first. She'd been innately inappropriate, and scolded herself for her actions. What would he think?

Her cheeks grew red when she'd recounted the situation from his perspective.

She'd gone to unlatch his armor.

Mayhap he thought her actions to be too inappropriate. Carnal perhaps. The blush grew down her neck.

It wasn't meant to be. Simply, the sound of his heart, the speed of it's beating, had surprised her. It was a very grounding thing, to strip a person down to their most basic elements.

At that moment, he hadn't been the Hound. He wasn't his scar. He wasn't a man whom instilled fear from just one look. He was simply a warm, hard body with heavy arms and a loud beating heart. It gave Sansa a comfort beyond words that she couldn't understand, and she just wanted more.

Had he taken her actions differently?

Sexually perhaps?

Did he lust her? Is that what angered him? That she behaved in a way that tangibly mirrored his own feelings? And he couldn't accept any truthfulness behind it? Major or minor? Or did he truly believe her to be the stupid, silly little girl he called her on a so many occasion, and found nauseating that she might feel corporeal about him?

She was a child no longer. Ten and five. She'd flowered. She was a woman. He'd even called her so.

The Hound confused her. She couldn't decipher him.

Though he was crass and cruel in her regards, he'd been inappropriate also, she remembered. The night of black water when he'd held her down. And just now; he'd held her so tightly, held her like no other man had held her before.

No mater how he felt, Sansa knew, he cared for her.


End file.
